


love you to the moon and to saturn

by switmikan74



Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BokuAka Week 2020, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Admirer, light take on autism, please don't take it too seriously I had lacked research time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switmikan74/pseuds/switmikan74
Summary: Bokuto doesn’t understand many things. Especially being loved.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859227
Comments: 29
Kudos: 153





	love you to the moon and to saturn

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry for the inaccuracy. This is for Day 8. Late upload because working sucks. And lol, another weird take of secret admirer. 😊 Enjoy. Please don't take offense, I try to understand Autism as much. But I had little time because of work. I'm going to re-edit this someday.

* * *

There was something about the world Bokuto doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know many things, especially about numbers. He doesn’t know why the sun is really hot and yellow. He doesn’t know what makes the leaves green. He doesn’t know why he can’t breathe underwater. He doesn’t know why his older brother refused to come home. He doesn’t know why his father is always angry or why his mother is always sad.

But, of all the things he doesn’t know, the thing that bothered him the most is his classmates’ laughter when he asked something to his teachers. Or why his teachers started ignoring him when he raises his hand in the class.

Sat in the farthest left, Bokuto doesn’t understand. A hand raised for a query. A minute turn to twenty. His teacher doesn’t look his way. The kid behind him kicks his chair—and then finally when the bell rings, he let his hand sink to his side, folded like a broken twig. There’s laughter howling beside his ears. He looks at his shuffling whispering classmates. They don’t look back but he felt their whispers.

Nobody told him anything but he wonders as he looks at his hand. Maybe, he should paint it bright yellow. Or a smiley face. Maybe, then, his teacher would notice. Or his classmates would invite him to play with them. Or laugh with them. Or—

.

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.

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In fifth grade, his English teacher called him to the office. A homework was given to them about their dream when they grow up. They read it out loud in front of the class. When it was his turn, Bokuto stood on his chair and lifted the parcel for everyone to see. Before anything could be said, he heard the snickering start and felt the burning stares from all over the room. He remembered in the moment his previous English teachers calling him silly for the things he once said. A cat in first grade. An alien outside of earth in the second. A good boy in the third. A quiet boy in the fourth. He remembered his classmates calling him things like stupid and funny but most of all, he recalled them agreeing to his teachers when called silly.

He sat down. He doesn’t get up even when his teacher tried to coax him. He shook his head and kept his head down. The paper is crumpled in his hands. The girl beside him threw him a curious glance before looking away. He knew her. He once asked her if she was okay when she fell down three weeks ago. She doesn’t ask him now or later on in their life.

In the office, his English teacher stared at him with much disapproval. He doesn’t ask if he is okay. He merely asked for the crumpled paper of his dream. He doesn’t know if it’s correct or anything but the hard edges of his teacher’s eyes soften all too suddenly.

“Bokuto-kun, is there anything you would like to be when you grow up?” The question is splayed in the gentlest of manner. Bokuto cannot grasp if it’s a soft sad or a soft angry. So, he shakes his head and asks, “Is it silly? I don’t have anything right now but maybe tomorrow, I can give you another one that isn’t silly.”

“No, Bokuto-kun, it’s not silly. This is okay.” It’s the same soft tone again. Bokuto is confused. But he doesn’t retaliate. Instead, he nods and thanks his teacher and then he goes home and he dozes. He wishes for his dream to come true, ninety-eight sheep into slumber.

Tomorrow, he feels silly once more for asking his Math teacher if multiplication could be used when counting sheep to sleep.

.

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.

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_When I grow up, I don’t want to be called silly, I want to be loved._

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Outside, cicadas sneer loudly. The sun spread shadows on the walls of their house. His father is yelling again. He is under the sink, hands clasp tightly against his ears. His mother screamed back for the first time in many years. With his hands over his ears, he cannot hear anything but his heartbeat. Silence. His brother taught him about it once before he went away.

“Koutarou, there’s magic in the quiet.” His brother is fifteen then and they fit in the tiny closet in their room. There’s a watery drop on his cheeks. Tears. It tasted salty. Bokuto wipes it away from his brother’s face and asks quietly (because he should be quiet as a mouse when they’re in the closet), “How?”

His brother had clasped his hands over his ears. His brother continued to speak but he doesn’t hear. He could have thought nothing of it. But he had seen the spiel far too many times. On his mother’s lips. On his brother’s own. He wondered why his brother was apologizing to him.

He was six. He didn’t know anything but his brother’s apology and the assurance that he loves him and that clasping your ears bring magic. They don’t hear their father’s _you ruined my life_ or their mother’s _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

 _See, Koutarou, magic_. Bokuto agrees even now. He is eleven. Almost six years since his brother left, Bokuto still finds magic in the quiet. Nothing changed, except his mother finally said enough.

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His mother goes to the hospital with him a month after leaving their home. He doesn’t follow the doctor’s words but his mother is crying again. He looks at the doctor when he was patted on the head.

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be worried about him.” The doctor says and then he continues with more things that Bokuto doesn’t follow. Still, the doctor smiles and ends, “You just have to love him lots and lots.”

Bokuto scrambles to his feet in sudden excitement, bouncing, “That’s my dream!”

When his mother bawls even more, he slows down and wilts to his chair. Maybe, it’s a silly dream after all. It makes his mother sad. He clings to her red blouse and begs, “No, Mama. You don’t have to love me. Please don’t cry.”

“Koutarou! Koutarou!” His name is an echo in the white room. The apologies she reserves for his father are thrown to him. But it is much warmer to hear, not grating nor full of guilt. The doctor stands tall but slouches. There’s the same gentleness he remembers from his fifth English teacher. He looks at his feet whilst his mother envelops him. Two arms like a protective shield. It’s been years since he felt safe.

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There was something about the world Bokuto doesn’t understand. But that’s okay apparently. He is an autistic boy—that’s probably the greatest excuse, one of his classmates told him three summers ago. Now, he is in high school and the mysteries on his plate has added.

There’s a letter on his locker. A pristine white envelope with someone else’s loop of handwriting. It confesses to him in a concise formal manner. _I love you_ sounded robotic amongst the correct plain grammar. But it spills something beautiful. Something soothing. Something honest.

He looks at it curiously. His name is printed neatly on the envelope and on the letter. But there is no hint from whom. Not a wisp of clue. Just a ghost of kindness. Or maybe a horrible prank.

He runs to Akaashi. Shamelessly, he opens the door of Akaashi’s classroom. He is standing by the window. The morning sun shrouds him in halo rays. The white translucent curtains flutter like wings behind him. He is as beautiful as the first time he met him in the gym, small and growing and a good setter attached to his name.

“AKAASHI!” He yells. Three girls flinch and a boy groans in irritation. The movement like a tremble of branches, the sound like nail scratches on a blackboard. Akaashi turns to him with his neutral façade, and in that calmness, Bokuto is able to withstand the destruction he brings.

“Look! Look!” Akaashi grabs his shoulders. There’s something about Akaashi’s touches. Like magic. He probably could soothe an angry sea. Yes, he would. Bokuto melts and settles, “Look!”

“What is it, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks with interest. Bokuto shoves the letter and Akaashi stares at it contemplatively before tilting his head, “A love letter?”

“It is.” He smiles, golden eyes affix on the paper, “Nobody wrote me one before because nobody loves me really.”

He laughs loudly. Akaashi isn’t laughing though. Neither the three girls nor the one other boy. They are all staring at him. He scratches the back of his head. He has to ask his mother about this. He might have said something tactless again.

“Wait. Um,” Words crawl out of him, trying to save something he doesn’t have the clear grasp of, “My mother loves me. And, uh, my brother. So like there’s at least two. But they’re family. Family loves each other. But my dad doesn’t. He’s gone away now so he doesn’t hurt us anymore. But! But, Akaashi, nobody loves me other than my family.”

The envelope wrinkles at the weight of his grip.

Akaashi cradles the hands that hold the love letter. Fingers wrapping like bandages. Bokuto curiously let his eyes swim from the tenderness of the digits to the delicate beautiful wrist to the long arms to slender shoulders to the elegant curve of Akaashi’s neck and to gunmetal eyes peering straight to his soul. A thin line slips on the younger’s pretty face. Unreadable in its sentences. The curve twitches, gravity doing its talent.

“Are you sure about that?” The question stands like a limping soldier. Bokuto is unsure what to reply so he says, “My dream isn’t achieved yet, you see.”

Most people think his dream is to be a volleyball athlete because he is good at it, the _only_ thing he is good at. _Despite being one_ , they would whisper candidly. It is expected of him to follow that path. He knows he will. One of these days, he will. But it isn’t his dream.

He told Akaashi about it. Three days after meeting the setter, at the rooftop during lunch, he told him his dream. A fantasy written on a crumpled paper taped under his bed. He doesn’t let his mother see it because his mother cries when she does. Every night since he is in fifth grade, he looks at it before he sleeps—always on the ninety-eight sheep when he wishes for it to come true like a clockwork routine. But once he hears his mother’s wails when she saw it pasted on his wall, he opted to hide it under his bed.

It was alright. He could disappear under the bed and stare at it. Half of his body can’t fit anymore because he is bigger now. But he still does his routine. Stare at his crumpled paper of a dream, ninety-eight sheep to sleep, and one wish for all the nights of his life.

“Are you sure about that?” There it is. A repetition. Akaashi doesn’t like repeating himself. He knows of it because he knows Akaashi. Bokuto sags and thinks. But he is sure he still wishes every evening.

The bell rings and the question falls.

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.

He feels differently. His doctor already explained that to him thrice. He feels a tad higher than the rest. He hears more, taste more too. Or sometimes, the complete opposite. Lesser than anyone. _No, Bokuto-kun, less sensitive, not lesser than anyone_. Bokuto tries his hardest to have the same line of thinking. Because everyday, there’s a wrench digging in his skin, a boiling sort of swamp that makes him _lesser_ and _lesser_ and _lesser_.

He is benched. His mood has depleted during an important game. His teammate has groaned. Akaashi sighed. The boiling swamp settled sneeringly in him on a hotter spectrum. The skids of shoes on the floor, the cheers, the callouts, the ball being hit, they are all too loud. He clenches his hands.

There’s no room to make more fuss. His coach has been explicit about it when he yelled at him. He focuses on Akaashi’s fingers. They move swiftly and magnificently, stretching like the sunrays over the mountains in early mornings. Sometimes, Bokuto wonders if his fingers would fit the spaces in his.

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They fit. Akaashi doesn’t say anything. A thoughtful look upon him, arranged like the books in his shelves. Precise. Careful. Akaashi hums and doesn’t retract. Instead, he turns his palm until Bokuto’s own is atop his and closes.

Bokuto doesn’t notice this. He is too busy studying the miracle of holding hands and fitting like jigsaw puzzles.

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“AKAASHI!”

It is at the same time with the same three girls and one boy. Bokuto skids to a halt in front of Akaashi, a similar envelope from three weeks ago offered to him with the same enthusiasm Bokuto possessed almost every day.

“There’s another one.” Bokuto gesticulates. Akaashi takes it from him. He laid it on top of his meticulously clean desk and reads, “I am happy when I am with you.”

“It’s one single sentence.” Bokuto speaks with a tone one would used when winning games. Akaashi nods, “It is.”

“I am glad.” Bokuto continues, taking a chair and sitting. He folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on them. Akaashi entertains him, “Please explain, Bokuto-san.”

He doesn’t say _why_ , because Bokuto would probably get confused. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want Bokuto to question himself if this is an appropriate response to a single sentence.

“I am happy that someone feels happy when they’re with me.” It doesn’t happen often, Bokuto knows. He’s lucky that Akaashi doesn’t mind him. But knowing someone is happy because of him, that’s something to celebrate. He knows because he called his mother firsthand before sprinting here.

“I am happy when I’m with you.” Akaashi repeats. Bokuto nods his head, “Yes, that’s what it says.”

Akaashi sighs.

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When he asks, he doesn’t raise his hand. Instead, he stands up so he could make sure that his teacher would notice him. That’s for classroom questions. For volleyball ones, he would stand in front of his coach. For personal queries, he wrote it on his hands and shove it on the person he is fairly curious about. He doesn’t forget the smiley face at the end.

“It’s a little smudge, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi still peers intently, trying to decipher the words. Bokuto giggles when Akaashi traces them. And when Akaashi finally understands, he answers, “Yellow. I like the color yellow.”

As a standing rule throughout middle school, Bokuto is given three chances to question his teachers every meeting. There are a lot of things he has to ask so he write them on his notebooks. They never finished the list because Bokuto’s brain is wired a little differently and there are too many queries spinning to life in his mind. The worst things are when they’re spun from the breeding of theories and they come out nonsensical for others.

In high school, he is given five chances. Akaashi discovers this accidentally. He was handing the notebooks of his class in the office when he heard one teacher say, “That’s the fifth question. You can ask me tomorrow again, Bokuto-kun.”

And, though Bokuto has more to say, he wilts out of the room and into the gym. Akaashi asked him and Bokuto explained. Five chances to talk to every teacher and get a response.

“You can ask me a lot of questions, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi expected Bokuto to rejoice. Instead, Bokuto knitted his eyebrows together, “But how many is a lot?”

Infinitely is not in Bokuto’s vocabulary. He has been denied of it. It isn’t easy to force something that Bokuto had lived without for so long. Akaashi settled for twenty questions.

That’s Bokuto’s seventh for the day. Morning is for Bokuto’s excitement for his secret admirer. Lunch is for getting to know each other. Afternoon trainings is for building trust in the court.

Akaashi pulls the wet wipe and washes Bokuto’s hand of the question and blows on them so they would dry.

Bokuto watches his fingers as they hold his hand.

“Can I hold your hand, Akaashi?” The eight question. Akaashi pauses. It took him another second before he could function again, “It is ‘may I hold your hand’, Bokuto-san. And yes, you may.”

“May I hold it every day?” The ninth question.

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Akaashi’s fingers are soft sheet made from angel’s feathers despite the callouses from playing volleyball, Bokuto thinks. He likes holding them. They are more than for filling spaces of his bigger hands. He really, really likes holding them each day.

He’s glad that Akaashi agreed.

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“AKAASHI!”

Today, one of the three girls is absent. He pauses and asks why. The three other students don’t know. They’re not friends apparently. He turns to Akaashi and sees him shrug. Akaashi isn’t really friends with anyone else but him. There’s a kind of giddiness he feels when Akaashi told him that. He professes that Akaashi is his only friend too.

“Look! Look!” Bokuto smiles and offers the letter. He likes hearing Akaashi’s voice read the content. It feels like Akaashi is confessing to him. Sometimes, he wishes it’s him.

His locker has been a recipient of letters from a secret admirer. Every day since. The content is unlike of the first day. For the first day, it is a blunt _I love you_. For the next following days, they’re single sentence of admiration, a poetry of Bokuto’s attribute or an exposé of his secret admirer’s deepest feelings.

It has spoken of his eyes, golden and a reminiscence of sunflowers. Now, Bokuto loves sunflowers. It has spoken of his hair, silver and raven, a blend of monotone that can catch the attention of the whole room. Bokuto takes good care of his hair nowadays. It has spoken of his volleyball skills, unwavering and inspiring. Bokuto tries to not be as moody as can be when playing. It has spoken of his laughter, bright and freeing. Bokuto doesn’t hate the sound of his laughter anymore. It has spoken of many things for many a day, always turning some hateful specs about him and turning it to something he likes.

It reminds him of Akaashi. Akaashi always has a way with words. Concise yet powerful, commanding authority. Truthfully, hearing them from Akaashi makes him like things he doesn’t like about himself. Akaashi has the softest look when he reads them. On the chart his mother provided him, it says loving. He likes thinking that Akaashi loves him.

Bokuto loves Akaashi so much. He reads it on the internet. Rapid heartbeats and calming peace. A thirst for attention from a specific person. A deep wanting to be always by his side. A need for forever and beyond.

“I love you.”

He startles.

“It says that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Bokuto tilts his head, “May I ask you my first and second question?”

Akaashi nods and Bokuto starts, “Why do you think that person loves me? Doesn’t that person know I’m…?”

Akaashi doesn’t get angry often. He’s the calmest person Bokuto knows. He has a perfect control with his emotions, only ever showing them with the closest people in his life. Bokuto has witnessed a different array of feelings from Akaashi. But they’re almost always positive—annoyance has been presented only when they’re playing a game or practicing. So, when Akaashi knits his eyebrow together and frowns, gnashing his teeth together, Bokuto is surprised.

Akaashi is angry but there are definitely tears in his eyes. He is mad-sad.

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi starts, “I don’t want you thinking that you’re unlovable because of your state.”

“But I am, aren’t I?” Bokuto counters not to be petulant but only to be truthful, “I see many angry people whenever I am in the room. I know because I study my chart everyday. They’re angry. And! And they’re upset. I can show you proof, Akaashi. I have a chart in my phone.”

He shuffles to his feet and clumsily elbows his bag to the ground. The drop spills the content and his perfectly organized notebooks, pens, and his phone splays out. He is already apologizing.

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi calls out with a tremble. Akaashi helps him, his fingers stretch out like wings descending down and picking evil things for purification. Akaashi cradles his phone once they’re done.

“Akaashi, give me. I have to show you the chart.” Akaashi shakes his head stubbornly. Bokuto frowns, “Akaashi. Look. I’m frowning. That’s angry. A lot of people frown when I’m around.”

“It doesn’t mean that they hate you or you’re unlovable. There’s plenty to love about you.”

Bokuto stomps his feet like a child, “You’re only saying that because you’re my friend. Friends are nice to each other.”

“Yes, yes. Friends are nice to each other.” Akaashi draws the phone closer, “But it doesn’t mean they would write you love letters everyday to be nice.”

“Don’t be silly, Akaashi.” There’s a moment of silence before Bokuto gasps. Oh no, he called Akaashi silly. That’s the meanest thing he had ever said to Akaashi. What should he do?

“Bokuto-san, look at me.” Fingers wrapped around him like soft blanket and he blinks, “It’s okay. I know you don’t mean to say I’m silly. It’s okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Akaashi, can I have my phone back? I need to show you the chart.”

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There was something about the world Bokuto doesn’t understand. He isn’t as good with academics like his peers. But that’s okay. His doctor said that it’s because of his condition. When one of his classmates asked him what’s wrong with him, he couldn’t say anything. He has to ask his mother about it. His mother said there’s nothing wrong with him. He doesn’t accept it almost immediately because it’s his mother. Mothers are supposed to be nice to their sons.

Akaashi tells him there’s nothing wrong with him. It’s the one hundred and ninety-seventh time. He should probably believe him by now. He says it in his own Akaashi way that makes it so believable.

Letters in the morning. Verbal reminding during lunch. Hugs and pats during and after practices.

He doesn’t understand Akaashi’s complexity even though he knows him a lot. He spent all twenty questions for each day so he understands a great deal about Akaashi. But Akaashi’s love for him is perplexing.

He has to understand because Akaashi is trying so hard in telling him about the identity of the secret admirer and him being one and the same. But who would even consider it? Akaashi is the nicest person he knows. He doesn’t give up on him despite being Bokuto. And he says that his letters were personified cowardice, a cold feet, afraid of rejection. Akaashi has to tell this thirty-seven times before he could finally connect it, six weeks after the classroom incident.

“So, you like me?” He readies his laptop and searches _how to date despite having autism_. There are ten articles on the first page. He opens them all.

Akaashi flips a page in his book, unperturbed of the question. He adds, “Romantically. I like you in a way that I want to date you, in a way that maybe someday, I want to start a family with you. I like you in an I love you kind of way. Do not ask me why because I simply do.”

“Oh.” Bokuto reads the first article, “Um. I love you too. Like a lot. And, uh, Akaashi, it says here love is love no matter what. Is that true? I’m sorry. I’m a little bit slow. It says here that people just have to make us understand things we don’t. So, I’m asking you. Please.”

Bokuto loves hugs. He loves it specially when Akaashi hugs him. He settles comfortably within the embrace. Akaashi's face is softly nuzzling the side of his neck. It is ticklish but he doesn’t laugh. It’s not something to laugh about. Instead, he asks, “Is it?”

“It is.” Akaashi finally replies. He settles beside him, leaning in close and breaking spaces for breathing. Bokuto doesn’t mind. He’ll breathe Akaashi’s air if he can be this close. He hopes he doesn’t breathe all of it. So, he breathes a little shallower to share.

The afternoon sun drips in his room. It paints it in a warm way, the orange reaching the under of his bed, like it was trying to touch the crumpled paper taped underneath. He throws it a glance before asking, “Are you my secret admirer, Akaashi?”

The words and the envelope have always been Akaashi-like. Especially read with Akaashi’s voice. There’s a hope floating inside of him, ballooning tightly but in a good way.

“Yes, I am, Bokuto-san.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pauses. The paper calls to him. Bokuto reaches for it and shows his childish writing, six years of waiting written whimsically. He stares at it and begins, “I love you too. A lot. And if you say that you love me too then my dream has come true, right? Because you don’t call me silly. You love me instead. My dream has come true, right?”

Akaashi cradles him with his beautiful fingers, the one that had held Bokuto more than anyone and made him felt safer and warmer and greater (not lesser, not lesser, not lesser).

The kiss doubles everything what Akaashi makes him feel.

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There was something about the world Bokuto doesn’t understand. But he knows that he loves Akaashi and Akaashi loves him back. And it’s okay if that’s the only thing he’ll ever discern.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you notice, the repetition is on purpose. :) review?


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